


Of Dressing Gowns and Other Foibles

by goingdownin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, I had to delete this bc I did something stupid while trying to do something simple, Ice Skating, Insecure cranky Sherlock, Jealous John, John interferes, M/M, More tags to be added, New Year's Eve, Please resubscribe bc I'm dumb, Possible inaccurate depictions of gay dating apps I have no idea don't hate me please, Sherlock creates an online dating profile (begrudgingly), Sherlock dates, Sherlock's Birthday, UST, Virgin Sherlock, annoyingly well-dressed men who are Not John, stupid things John regrets saying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-02-28 07:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18751831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingdownin221b/pseuds/goingdownin221b
Summary: When John finds out that his best friend is 36 and still a virgin, he makes it his personal mission to open Sherlock up to new experiences and possibilities. In other words, he decides to rock his world.Ahem. By proxy, of course....





	1. The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Two things:
> 
> First, please forgive me stalling out on my other story, “Somewhere in the Etcetera.” Due to the serious subject matter and the emotional importance of the story for me, it became harder to work on than I had anticipated and I’ve had to put it on the back burner for a bit. I decided to write something more lighthearted and tropey for the time being, since as a reader I always enjoy those sorts of stories myself. Oh, and there will be porn; there must always be porn.
> 
> Second, I just want to take a moment to specify that in this story neither John nor Sherlock know the term “demisexual.” If they did, they might think to apply it to Sherlock. Their lack of knowledge is just a character thing that I’m assuming, since Sherlock avoids relationships and John seemingly hasn’t opened himself up to learning more about his own possible sexuality. I wanted to clarify that so it doesn’t appear as though I’m ignoring all the shades of sexuality and asexuality, since I’m bothered myself as a reader when  
> I feel like different sexualities are casually lumped in with “gay,” “straight,” or “bi” when there is a more accurate term available and all should be equally visible.

John made a very conscious effort to keep his expression neutral. “Never?”

Sherlock huffed and clutched his glass of whiskey visibly tighter, averting his gaze. He _looked_ angry, but John knew him well enough at this point to understand that a lot of what he was seeing was embarrassment.

“You seem to be laboring under the same erroneous, simple-minded assumption as the rest of society, John, and frankly it’s not only boring, but disappointing. While throughout history mankind has tried again and again to assign an actual monetary value to the concept of virginity in the form of dowries and other exchanges of goods, just as there is no actual worth to something so practically ephemeral neither does retaining one’s virginity imply a defect of personality, intellect, or maturity.”

John blinked. “I never said it did. But you seem to have given this some thought for someone who is, of course, entirely untroubled by it.” He lifted his glass and drank calmly.

Sherlock still did not meet his gaze, but his cheeks were flushed and John doubted it had much to do with the mid-autumn fire they were sitting before. Or the whiskey, for that matter.

“Hey, look,” John said conciliatorily, “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m surprised is all.”

“Why on earth should you be surprised?” Sherlock was staring at him critically now. “You’ve met me,” he added, voice lowered to a mutter. He sipped from his drink.

John tapped his nails against his own glass and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he gave it some serious thought. “Well, you crave knowledge. I suppose I thought that extended to pretty much everything--that if you’d given thought to 243 types of tobacco ash, at some point you might have experienced at least a fleeting curiosity about sex, particularly after hitting puberty. You’re also not someone who shies away from sensation. If anything, you chase it. You’re a recovered addict, you smoke, you love silk and lounging around in your sleepwear and dressing gowns. You enjoy sweets. Basically anything that sparks the reward system of your brain you tend to overdo. So why not this?”

The irritation had faded from Sherlock’s face. He looked hesitant and uncertain now. “I...well….” He sat up a bit straighter. “All right, so most of that is true. But if you examine what you’ve said, you’ll find that most of my...pleasure-seeking activities...have been solo.”

“So it’s the human element.” John nodded his head from side to side a bit, as though weighing this. “Okay. Do you masturbate?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times, his cheeks flaring even redder. “I...beg your pardon?!?”

John’s traitorous lips tried to form a smile, so he bit them. Hard. “Well, masturbation is solo. Granted you can’t lose your virginity doing it, but enjoying it would imply that sexual gratification holds some merit for you, if not ‘value’, as you were going on about before.”

Damn. Was it just him, or was he getting better at this?

Sherlock stared at him hard. He grabbed one side of his dressing gown and pulled it abruptly, shifting in his chair to angle his entire body away from John, crossing his legs and tipping his chin up haughtily. “What I am _not_ interested in is this conversation.”

“I suppose we differ there,” John murmured. “I find it very interesting.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Sherlock blinked, but seemed to gain some composure on deciding that his flatmate didn’t mean that he found Sherlock’s sex life in _particular_ interesting. “Well. You would, given how often you engage in sexual congress yourself.”

John finally snickered. “Sexual congress. All right.”

Sherlock sneered. “Something funny?”

John fixed him with an _I know you’re not this clueless and you only do this when it’s convenient for you_ look. “How long have we known each other, now? Why are you pulling this whole ‘scientifically removed’ bit? You staunchly defend your virginity to show that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and then refuse to have a real conversation about it with _me_ , your best friend, as though you are in fact ashamed?”

Sherlock’s expression slowly dissolved into one of resignation. “You’re getting too good at this,” he said miserably, validating John’s assessment from just moments before. “I’m a bad influence on you and you really should stop spending time with me.”

John smiled, a fond half-smile this time. “Sorry. No can do.”

Sherlock huffed again. “Fine. I will attempt to explain.” He was quiet for a long moment. He gazed into the fire as he answered, a faraway look in his eyes. “I suppose the crux of the matter is that when I become interested in something--anything--it’s because it appeals to me on several levels: anything from a good crime to an experiment to the drugs I’ve taken and their influence on my mind. But one thing I have never been particularly interested in is sex for its own sake. I simply don’t find it all that interesting, and so I suppose that I would first need to be interested in the potential partner. I have never understood people, John. In fact, the more elaborate the social ritual--the more intimate--the less I seem to understand. That has always been the case.”

John nodded to show he was listening, aware Sherlock could sense the movement in his peripheral vision.

“It should then come as no surprise that this extends to sexual matters. I have never had the desire to become that intensely personal with another for what is in fact a very fleeting and, most often, very _impersonal_ act. I don’t understand how others approach it with such nonchalance and how they are so indiscriminate in choosing a partner. In other words, if I were to engage in that way it would need to...” his voice seemed to fade out, and he cleared his throat, looking embarrassed yet again. “Well. I would need to involve myself more than my past interactions with people have led me to believe is feasible or wise. So I abstain.”

“So you’re afraid.”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, gaze flickering toward him again. _“What?”_

“Think about it. Murder and all its motives, they’re complex. Figuring all that out isn’t any different, except that you don’t have to get close to anyone.”

“It’s--it’s _very_ different, John. The basic science and predictable variables based on the personality of a suspect, combined with the resultant logical mathematics of the odds involved in solving a crime--”

John cut him off wryly. “Have you ever tried?”

The detective snorted. “Please, John. Again, you’ve met me: you’ve seen how people respond to me.”

John sniffed. “Oh, I have. I don’t think _you_ have, though.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“The way people look at you…you’d have been impregnated by now just from some of those looks alone if it was possible.”

This was met with a colossal eye roll.

“Nevermind the hyperbole, okay? I’m talking every time we leave the flat,” John gestured with his free hand illustratively, “people take one look at you and then trip all over their own feet. Sure, you tend to put them off once you open your mouth, but I’ve seen you play a part. You can act, and could _surely_ charm the pants off anyone if you put your mind to it. All you’d have to do is deduce what they want and then deliver. Complex as anything, but as easy for you as solving a murder. So you’re honestly telling me there hasn’t been one person _in all your life_ who you’ve wanted to try it on with?”

Sherlock picked busily at the arm of his chair, not looking up. “Perhaps...once or twice, but...I felt it would be unwise. Complicate things. Furthermore, if you were listening before, you’d infer that those were instances where I genuinely enjoyed the other person’s company. Therefore I felt it would be unkind to mislead them into thinking that I can be someone or something I am not.”

“You have plenty of desirable qualities.”

“I am not relationship material.”

John sighed. “Is that it, then? For you, sex and relationships are mutually exclusive? You can’t do a casual one-off just for the sake of human touch? Of getting it over with, even?”

“I’ve never given this as much thought in all my life as I have in the past ten minutes, John.”

John wasn’t put off by that, even if it was true. If anything, he became more determined than ever to press the issue. “Do you want to remain a virgin for the rest of your life?” It was a serious question.

“Well…” Sherlock looked perplexed. There was a lengthy pause. “No. I suppose not.”

“All right, well. I know you better than anyone, yeah? It’s the beginning of November now, and you’re turning thirty-seven in two months, so...tell you what, by the time your birthday comes, I’ll...find you someone.”

Sherlock’s head whipped up and he gave John a look of such horror that John had to consciously choke back a laugh. “You’re going to...pimp me out?”

John stopped fighting it and laughed so hard he almost gave himself a stomachache. “Pimp…? No, Sherlock, god no. I mean, there’s no money changing hands, for one thing. Oh, stop that look, I know what you meant but--no. This is just about...having it over with, okay? I’ll find you someone reasonable and you can worry about the rest later.”

“Why? Why does it matter?”

“Because maybe the fact that you’re a virgin is holding you back from actually opening yourself up to a real relationship. It’s like a vicious cycle, yeah? You don’t want to be with anyone because you haven’t been with anyone, and you think you can’t be with anyone because you haven’t been with anyone, so you never try. I just want to get you out of your own way. Plus, I quite happen to like sex. It’s a good thing. I think you should experience it. Hell, Sherlock, I don’t want to see you alone for the rest of your life. It makes me sad to think about. So I’m making this my mission, now. No arguments. You already said you don’t want to stay a virgin.”

“And if you fail?”

“I won’t.”

“You say that with such certainty.”

“Because I won’t. They didn’t call me Three Continents Watson in the army for nothing. But, um...this does necessitate that I ask you a rather straightforward question.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Must you?”

“Um, yes.”

“But you know the answer already.”

John cocked his head. “Do I?”

“The answer is yes, John. I am gay. How many times have I told you that women are not my area?”

“Oh.” John blinked, surprised at the ease with which his answer had come. “Right.”

Sherlock stood and turned away.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed, possibly to die. I’ve had enough.” He paused, and looked over his shoulder at John. “You _will_ fail, John.”

“No I won’t. Because, um...I’ve a contingency plan.” He licked his lips, having decided basically just that moment. “Yeah.”

“Which is?”

John cleared his throat and made a visible effort to maintain eye contact. “Well, if I haven’t found you someone by your birthday then...um...I volunteer.’

“You...you what?” Sherlock’s voice had gone dry. He turned back around to face John fully, gobsmacked.

“If we don’t find someone that you like, then, I volunteer. Assuming that you don’t object, of course, I mean I’m not so egotistical as to presume...but...I mean, you’re comfortable with me I think, and it would be safe and non-judgmental and...I mean I suppose...an ideal alternative if nothing better comes along?” John looked more and more doubtful the longer he went on.

Sherlock blinked slowly, once, his gaze suddenly unreadable. “All right, John.” His voice was quiet. “Challenge accepted.”


	2. Creative Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John helps Sherlock write up a dating profile.

Two days later, when John was relatively certain that Sherlock was researching on his laptop for a personal experiment rather than a case, he approached the detective with his first “assignment.”

“I’ve just emailed you several links.” He sat at the table across from Sherlock and blew over the surface of his hot cup of tea.

“Regarding?” Sherlock asked imperiously, eyes glued to his screen.

“Your profile. For the dating sites we’ll be putting you on. Tips for writing something eye-catching. I can help you a bit, but I’ve obviously no experience trying to attract men and from the little I’ve seen it’s a different challenge altogether. So I looked up a few things.”

“Already?” Sherlock sighed, tapping a key a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“You only have two months. Don’t forget how picky you are. This isn’t going to be an instantaneous thing. If you were open to something more casual it could be, but as it stands this may take a bit.”

Sherlock stopped browsing and regarded him. “Is there something wrong with my aversion to a…‘quickie’?”

John did his best not to giggle at the disdain in Sherlock’s voice, along with the sheer absurdity of the fact that the word “quickie” was part of his public-school vocabulary.

“No, Sherlock. Of course not. This is about what you want for your first experience, and that’s not it. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m merely trying to highlight the need for expedience if this is to happen before your birthday.”

“You’re the one who set that deadline. Is there some societal expectation about reaching the age of thirty-seven of which I am unaware? Any loss of virginity coupon not redeemed by age 37 will result in forfeiture of the privilege? Seems an odd age for such fatuity. People usually favor composite numbers for that sort of nonsense, I’ve found.”

John paused, deciding not to admit that he embarrassingly had no idea what a composite number was. “No, it’s nothing about turning 37, smartarse. It’s just...a concrete deadline, you know? Like how people start over after New Year’s.”

“Then why didn’t you choose New Year’s eve?”

“Because that’s even sooner.”

“Not by much.”

“Do _you_ want to make it New Year’s?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Then...we’re back where we started. Thanks for your most helpful input.”

Sherlock shrugged, but smirked. The contrary git.

“ _Any_ way,” John urged, “take a look at the links, right? Why don’t you try to have something by dinnertime? A rough draft.”

“Please. How long could it take.” Sherlock set about accessing his email, seemingly determined to prove how just how inconsequential the whole thing was.

***

After running out to meet Mike Stamford for lunch and then doing a run to Tesco’s, John returned to 221b to find that Sherlock had moved to the table in the lounge and was pressing his forehead into the palms of his hands.

“You were wrong, John. This is harder than murder. _Infinitely so._ ”

John was amused by Sherlock’s overwhelmed tone and how his statement might have sounded to a normal person, but he decided to refrain from being an arse about it and kept his thoughts to himself. “Oh?”

“Yes. Apparently, I need to categorize myself as some type of wildlife. I’m certainly not a bear, or a pup...I don’t have nearly enough hair for most of these.”

John blinked. “I’m sorry… _wildlife?_ ”

“It’s a _code_. Used among gay men to summarize their body type and personality in what is surely a flawed system designed to expedite the mating process…. How people _do_ love to pigeonhole themselves.” He steepled his fingers in front of his lips and glared at his laptop. “You’re easy to categorize according to these terms.” He looked almost envious.

John snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t fit in any of these...zoological categories, would I? Not gay.”

“Sssilver fox,” Sherlock hissed, teasing. He smirked that little smirk again, his eyes shifting sideways to take in John’s reaction.

John grinned, but shook his head. “I don’t know what it means, but off the bat I’ll say that sounds more like Lestrade than me.”

“More so than you know,” Sherlock muttered.

“Okay, pretending I didn’t hear that,” John said, turning quickly to put some boxes up in the cupboards. _Really, Lestrade swung that way? Huh._ Well. Some things were just too personal to know about your friends until they made a direct announcement. Nothing could be kept from Sherlock, but John didn’t want to stick his nose into the DI’s business when he hadn’t been confided in. “So,” he called back, “What are you going with, then?”

A loud sigh carried across the flat. “As I said, I don’t _fit_ any of these. The most...accurate…,” he said, sounding grievously injured, “would be the ‘twink’ category, I suppose, which...first of all, is strangely incongruous, seeing as it isn’t an animal. I’m not sure _what_ it is. Sounds more like a dessert. Anyway, it's probably how most gay men would classify me. Twinks are not particularly athletic, whereas a majority of gay men seem to be obsessed with going to the gym. I’ve no need due to the physical nature of what Mycroft refers to as the ‘legwork,’ coupled with a poor appetite and my high metabolism. But the ‘twink’ definition seems to indicate it’s meant to be applied to younger men with sparse body hair, and I am simply the world’s most geriatric virgin evidently. This is all quite tiresome.”

John was doing his best not to contemplate Sherlock's sparse body hair. “So why this need to categorize yourself then if you hate it? You should just be yourself. Gloss over that other stuff. It’s lingo, that’s all. I’ll bet most men don’t actually care. Certainly won’t once they see your profile pic.”

The response to this was...nothing. Sherlock continued to stare at his electronic device as though it was a truck which had nearly run him over.

Just before dinner, he emailed John the following:

_About Me: While I have gathered that I should classify myself as a “twink” to help impatient suitors who cannot fathom the intricacies of actual body types and personalities, I find that definition far too narrow to accurately represent me, even if only to neanderthals. I am, however, mostly hairless if that is important to you. I’m 6’0”, 36 years old, and lack interpersonal skills and the ability to interpret social cues. I’m seeking someone intelligent who won’t waste my time with trivial small talk and who doesn’t mind being abandoned in the middle of dinner if I get a call from Scotland Yard to help solve a crime. That isn’t me being “cute,” which I’ve gleaned is a popular trait to feign in these dating profiles. I do solve crime for a living. Please contact me if you feel you can refrain from boring me, or, barring that, if you have an interesting case._

“Um,” John said.

Sherlock, who had come to hover nearby with his hands clasped neatly before him while John read, raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“It’s very...honest,” John said tactfully.

“Yes. You said I should be myself,” Sherlock said, like a school child awaiting praise.

John rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Yes, but--”

Sherlock sighed explosively, spinning on one heel and heading for the sofa. He threw himself down in an irritable cloud of blue-silk-dressing-gown. “I give up. ‘Get thee to a nunnery, Sherlock,’” he paraphrased with great sarcasm and drama.

“No! You didn’t let me finish,” John pleaded. “Look, this isn’t bad, it’s just, you need to sweeten the pot a bit. You can tell the truth but still make it sound charming.”

Sherlock grunted.

“Do you mind if I doctor it up?”

“Doctor away, John. Knock yourself out. You can go on the date for me too, if you’d like, but remember to bring your thimble of blood to spill on the sheets.”

“Har de har,” John said. “Let me call for a takeaway first. Chinese? You seemed to like that new place we tried last week.”

***

Forty-five minutes later their meal had arrived. John made sure to lay out Sherlock’s portion before him (he could tell the detective was hungry whether he himself knew it or not) prior to reopening the browser window containing his edits. He had, as he'd told Sherlock, no experience trying to attract men...but well, it couldn't be that different, could it? Unless you were purely seeking sex, and then perhaps it was quite different. But as things stood he'd done his best to springboard off what Sherlock had written, as well as off from what he knew about the man.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, jabbing at his food. “Read it to me. But so help me god if there’s anything in there about me ‘solving the case of who my soulmate is’ I will locate the nearest dull implement,” he waved a chopstick ominously, “and stab myself viciously to death with it, if only for the savage joy of knowing that Scotland Yard will never solve my suicide.”

There was an abrupt and tense silence, and Sherlock paused in pushing things around his plate to glance up timidly through his lashes. John had gone pale--it wasn’t difficult to deduce that it had been the mention of “suicide” that had done it--and the look on his face was stony, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

“Apologies,” Sherlock murmured, suddenly feeling small and regretful. “Um...do proceed. If you would...be so kind.”

The pause stretched out for a few moments longer, and Sherlock hastily shoveled a bite of food into his mouth as a gesture of peace. Finally, mercifully, John cleared his throat and read:

“About me: I am 36 years old, tall and slim (6’0” with a high metabolism and a career in law enforcement that helps to keep me in shape, which is a good thing because I have little time outside of work for the gym and even less interest in going). I keep neatly groomed: I prefer a nicely tailored suit over any other attire. Suffice it to say that my wardrobe has never included anything made of denim, so if your look can best be described as Casual Friday I may not be the one for you. I enjoy upscale dining and a partner who can engage me in intelligent conversation. Honesty upfront: I am somewhat of a workaholic, so if I can meet someone similarly-minded that would be a plus. Even better if you enjoy violin music, late nights, and are able to approach life with a sense of humor. If your interests and aesthetic are complementary to mine then let’s set up a date and see where it takes us.”

“Career in law enforcement? Fine dining?” Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow and poked at his dinner to highlight that John may have been stretching the truth a bit.

“It’s best to stay general. What you do is a bit difficult to convey in one paragraph, wouldn’t you say? And hey, you at least want a nice glass of wine out of it don’t you? If everything else goes pear-shaped at least there’ll be that.”

“True.” Sherlock pursed his lips. “Okay, not bad. It...almost sounds like me.”

“Well, I do know you,” John pointed out.

“All right, all right. You don’t have to be smug about it.”

They looked at each other and, for no reason whatsoever, broke out with matching grins of amusement.

John hit “post” on the first of three sites he had set up for Sherlock, feeling good and yet--for no real reason he could suss--apprehensive.


	3. The First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes on his first official date. John frets.

***

As the days passed John seemed to grow more and more antsy each time Sherlock picked up his phone and stared at it for any length of time. Time that was potentially being spent, say, on reading messages received on dating apps.

But nothing happened. Nothing, nothing, nothing...a week and a half passed before Sherlock announced that he had a dinner date set. Though a week and a half was technically not all that long, especially for someone as fussy as Sherlock, it was a week spent in different forms of anticipation for both men (and in typical British fashion neither mentioned his feelings, or the reasons behind them).

For Sherlock, the anticipation had cropped up from nervousness: John was likely right, he had decided. Time to get this whole “first time” business out of the way with. Maybe he would surprise himself and enjoy dating (that seemed _highly_ unlikely). In any case it was bound to be an interesting learning experience. If all else failed he could be his usual self and sabotage proceedings on the spur of the moment.

For John, well...that was more difficult to pin down. Why, exactly, did he feel so invested in Sherlock’s personal life? John knew that he himself enjoyed sex, and he’d had many fulfilling relationships--both physical and otherwise. It seemed that Sherlock would prefer for everyone to think he was completely asexual and couldn’t care less about involving himself with others, but John didn’t buy that after everything he’d been through with his best friend. Sherlock may not be good at picking up on emotional subtleties, but John felt fairly confident that he himself was. And if he was right about all that then it was sad to think that Sherlock had never experienced any of the emotional milestones that he himself had.

He just knew that he wanted Sherlock to have _more_ in his life. Something--everything--unexpected. Sherlock seemed to think only locked-room murders could provide the excitement of the unpredictable--never people.

John wanted to prove him wrong. He thought it would actually intrigue and delight his friend to know that regardless of his brilliance things could still surprise him; that there was _not_ a formula to everything; that some mysteries came in the form of people and yet were still never-ending.

***

The first date was set for a Friday night. The guy's name was Matthew, which made John want to wrinkle his nose. It was so...normal; it was almost offensively inoffensive. When pressed Sherlock had relented and shown him Matthew's photo, doing a thorough job of acting put out by the whole thing. Matthew was very tall and very blond, and was in good shape because he was a firefighter. John _highly_ doubted that he would need to chaperone the date with a gun to Sherlock’s temple. And since Matthew had such an exciting job, he and Sherlock should have plenty to talk about.

Was that all they would do? Talk? John could imagine the progression of things following one of two extremes: zero physical contact, or the Kama Sutra from A-Z. Sherlock liked research; he never did anything by halves. John couldn't picture Sherlock being shy. Standoffish yes, but not shy. Would he take a rip-the-plaster-off approach to sex?

John also couldn’t help but wonder if Matthew was Sherlock's “type.” Did Sherlock _have_ a type? John supposed he'd get to find out, if a parade of men began trying it on with his flatmate.

Oh god. What if Sherlock became addicted to sex? What if he wanted to bring his dates back to their flat and John had to either leave or stay and risk overhearing...proceedings? What if his best friend began graphically discussing his bedroom activities over breakfast with his typical lack of a filter?

 _Stop thinking about it,_ John scolded himself. _For god's sake, why am I thinking about it at all?_

But he'd made himself a part of it now, hadn't he? If anything he'd better make certain that Sherlock “followed through” with _someone_ so he himself wouldn't be obligated to make good on certain rash promises which had felt--*coughwhiskey*--perfectly safe and rational at the time they were made. Even if he did need to put his money where his mouth was, so to speak, it wouldn’t be so bad surely. A one-time thing. Entirely selfless. A sacrifice, even. John wasn't into men. Not even tall, brilliant, ethereally handsome men with lush dark curls.

Speaking objectively.

***

When Matthew arrived to pick Sherlock up John was very casually situated on the sofa with his laptop open, not working on the blog. He did not whatsoever resemble a guard dog.

_About me: While I have gathered that I should classify myself as resembling a “guard dog,” I find it more accurate to say I am an interfering 42-year-old arsehole. My current hobbies include jeering at my flatmate’s fit blond suitor while not picturing them having sex in various yoga positions. If you care for me to complete this profile, you can find me at my dentist’s office, because I think I've just cracked a tooth._

Matthew emanated relaxed sophistication. He was almost Sherlock’s exact height, and he had taken the brunet’s profile to heart if his formal attire (a dark charcoal suit) was anything to go by. Must be taking him somewhere quite ritzy. No Angelo’s for these two, then.

Fine. Good. Sherlock and John would still have somewhere of their own to go to, then. Somewhere untainted by the memory of Sherlock being enthusiastically deflowered after a steak dinner.

John furrowed his brow, staring a hole through his blog. What had gotten into him? What was with the sudden over-protectiveness? _This had all been his own suggestion!_

He watched via his peripheral vision while Sherlock greeted Matthew with a cordial handshake.

“...and this is my flatmate, John.”

Matthew turned an appreciative gaze from Sherlock, who was looking rather nice in a dark suit and cornflower-blue shirt. John, pretending to have been caught off-guard, feigned an air of distraction as he looked up to acknowledge the introduction.

Matthew was helping Sherlock into his Belstaff at exactly that moment. No chance to shake hands. Pity. He nodded at John cordially, offering a very nice and aggravatingly genuine smile. “Nice to meet you.”

John nodded back, smiling in return. “Same to you.” _If you hurt him I will murder you so hard your grandfather will feel it in his bollocks._

“Ready, then?” Matthew asked Sherlock, already leaning in too close and with a far too confidential tone. Flirting.

“Yes,” Sherlock said plainly. He turned to John, evidently to say goodbye.

John waited. What would it be? ‘Don’t wait up?’

But Sherlock raised one hand hesitantly--jerkily--and to John’s amusement he sort of...waved, then looked embarrassed and angry at himself for the stupid gesture. He turned abruptly away before John could so much as blink. Matthew, who was holding the door, gently pulled it closed behind them without looking back.

John stared at the door for a long moment, chewing his lower lip.

He checked his watch. Too early for bed.

He’d already had dinner.

He resigned himself to a long evening of fretting and actually doing what he’d been pretending to do: updating the blog by writing up some of their older cases.

***

John was nodding off over his laptop with a half-empty cup of cold tea beside him when Sherlock arrived home. The door to 221b shutting roused him and he glanced at his watch again, listening to the familiar rustling of the Belstaff being replaced on its peg. It was only just after 10pm.

Sherlock appeared in the kitchen and headed straight to the refrigerator without greeting John. He opened the door and stared in for a long moment before selecting pomegranate juice and setting about pouring himself a glass.

“How was it?” John asked casually, rubbing one eye.

Sherlock seated himself at the table across from John with his juice, but didn’t touch it. “It was….” he shrugged. “A date, I guess. It was fine.” He looked from John to his glass and then back again. “Oh, do you want this? I should have offered you some.”

John blinked in surprise. After an evening of forcing himself to mind his manners, Sherlock must be having a difficult time turning it off. “That’s okay, thanks.”

Sherlock drank.

“Nothing to tell, then?” He didn’t want to press, but he couldn’t very well _not_ ask.

“He’s all right,” Sherlock said, sounding neither disinterested nor overly enthusiastic. “Handsome, certainly. Not dull.”

John felt a pang somewhere in the region of his breastbone. “How was the restaurant? Did you eat?”

Sherlock tapped his fingernails against the side of his glass. “It was decent. No prices listed on the menu--that sort of place. We had oysters and...sundries,” he said vaguely, the uncharacteristic lack of details making John frown. “We shared a dessert. Something chocolate.”

John pictured the two men huddled over their dessert, chatting flirtatiously. He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Oh. That sounds nice.”

Sherlock made a slightly pained face. “I ate too much. I was being ‘polite.’”

John smiled and chuckled. “Would you like some peppermint tea?”

“Yes, please.” He sounded relieved at the very mention.

“Of course,” John said, pushing back from the table and forcing himself up. He was exhausted, actually, but he got the kettle going. Sherlock seemed rattled, and John had no desire whatsoever to go to bed until he had details.

John leaned back against the counter while he waited for the kettle to boil, looking Sherlock over. At least he didn't seem traumatized. John decided to go ahead and ask; he wouldn’t be able to fully rest later if he didn’t. “You all right?”

Sherlock looked up at him with mild surprise. “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry, it’s just...that was quite different from what I’m used to.”

“In what sense?”

Sherlock looked away to busy himself with scratching something nonexistent off the table-top, and John realized that this was how Sherlock looked when he was feeling insecure.

“Being flirted with,” Sherlock admitted. “Looked at...that way.”

“Well,” John smiled with uncertainty. “That’s why you went, right? That’s the point?”

“It was strange,” Sherlock said. “He doesn’t even know me. He just kept...looking at me like I was the entree. I wasn’t sure what to say.”

John laughed gently. “You? You’re Mr. Interesting. I would have thought the conversation bit would be easy.”

Sherlock didn’t laugh; he went on looking slightly puzzled. “Off and on it was. He’s intelligent. Knows a bit about science. He was interested in our work.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched a bit at the realization that Sherlock wasn’t even aware he so naturally lumped _John_ and _the work_ together. _See?_ he told himself. _Nothing has to change._

“I was just,” Sherlock went on, “thrown off by the attraction bit. It was evident that he found me aesthetically pleasing, and I’m accustomed to shutting that sort of attention down quickly. But there I was, in a situation where attraction is entirely the point. It was jarring.”

“Hmm. Were you attracted as well?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”

The kettle whistled suddenly and John nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and busied himself with the tea, finally returning to the table with a cup for them each.

“So,” John said, trying to sound business-like. “Will you see each other again?”

Sherlock spooned sugar into his cup and stirred his tea delicately. “He offered to take me out again later in the week. I said yes.”

John nodded woodenly.

“No reason not to, I suppose,” Sherlock continued. “He wasn’t offensive or anything.”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement,” John said, half-smiling again. “So...did he...you know. Kiss you?”

Sherlock’s shoulders visibly tensed, and John was fairly sure he caught the hint of a blush on his cheeks. “There was a sort of...lean-in.”

John raised an eyebrow when he didn’t go on. “And?”

“I did the French thing. I sort of kissed, like--” he made a nonsensical gesture in the air, “next to his cheek--then made a tactical retreat.”

John laughed what felt like his first genuine laugh since Sherlock had gotten home, unable to help the wave of fondness that washed over him. He found he couldn’t stop. Sherlock just stared at him for a moment, and then a smile--sincere, yet trembling minutely with self-consciousness at the memory of how the night had ended--lit his face. “Prat,” he said softly but entirely without venom.

John reigned himself in, forced himself to sober so he could ask his next question. “You didn’t _want_ to kiss him?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, looking shy once again.

“Do you feel like telling me why? I mean--you don’t have to, just tell me if I’m being nosy--”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assured him quickly. “You’re--well. Part of this I suppose. Not sure I should thank you for that yet,” he added playfully.

John huffed a gentle laugh. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“To be honest I might have done it, just for the sake of finding out whether I _did_ feel anything, but um...I haven’t...you know. Kissed anyone since primary school.”

“Seriously?” John asked, surprised. “I mean I know you haven’t done _everything_ , but even kissing?”

Sherlock looked downright embarrassed. “Just kid stuff. You know. Someone grabs you on the playground and you suddenly have an anonymous tongue down your throat and no idea why or how to react.”

John smiled to indicate he understood what Sherlock meant.

“I’m not sure I would have felt any differently if Matthew had been successful in his endeavor tonight.”

“Really? You suppose it would have been that awkward?”

“Well.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “On my side of it. I don’t know the first thing about kissing, John. What if I...miss?”

“Miss?”

“His mouth.” Sherlock’s cheeks had gone bright red.

John suddenly felt the enormity of the moment: how much Sherlock was trusting and confiding in him, how vulnerable he was being. And John took that trust very seriously. “You wouldn’t,” he said gently. “I promise you wouldn’t. It’s more natural than you think.” He swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat, suddenly wanting more than anything for Sherlock to have that kiss. With Matthew--with anyone suitable. With whoever he wanted. He was the most brilliant person John had ever met, by far--he didn’t deserve to feel so uncertain and inferior.

Sherlock, seeing that he wasn’t going to be laughed at, began to look slightly heartened.

“Okay,” John said, sitting up straighter. “Let’s run a theoretical scenario. Let’s say you _were_ going to kiss Matthew. It’s the end of your second date and he leans in again, and this time you decide you’re going to just go for it. What--what do you imagine? How do you imagine you’d want it to be?”

He looked confused again. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Sorry--I should have elaborated. My fault. So, there are different ways to kiss. It really depends on what you want to convey. It could be…a chaste peck, but that feels a bit aunt-ish. It could be passionate. You know, tongues and all, hands clutching, that whole bit. And there are variations on both of those. I’ll try to simplify this by guessing you’d want something in-between. Right?”

Sherlock nibbled his lower lip briefly. “That...sounds right I suppose. I wouldn’t want to do anything that implied I was up for--more.”

John nodded encouragingly, trying not to show how relieved he felt. “Of course. All right then. So….” he folded his hands on the table in front of him and bowed his head for a moment in contemplation, deciding.

“Are you praying for guidance?” Sherlock asked, deadpan. “Am I that hopeless?”

John laughed and kicked his leg gently under the table. “Git. No, of course not. I was playing it out in my head--how I’d do it in your situation. So, okay: he walks you up to the door and says he had a nice time. That’s probably when he’d lean in again, watching you for nonverbal cues to see if you were receptive.”

“What sort of cues?”

“Body language. Whether or not you seemed tense or relaxed; where your eyes were focused; if you were open to it you might be looking at his mouth, anticipating the kiss.”

Sherlock nodded.

“And if you weren’t,” John said, grinning, unable to resist a slight tease, “he might hear your key jangling as you tried to unlock the door behind you sight unseen, like Houdini.”

Sherlock grinned, suddenly and brilliantly, and this time John’s shin was the one to be kicked under the table. They both laughed.

“Okay, okay.” John waved his hands. “Disregard that. Back to the situation at hand: he leans in to kiss you. He’s doing the leaning, so he’s the one doing the reading of the body-language. That’s on him, really, since he’s taking the initiative. All you have to do is be aware of his intention, like you were tonight. So you’ve got that bit down. Now, this time, you allow him to go ahead with it. Um.” John furrowed his brow. “This bit is hard to explain.” He paused. “When his lips meet yours, you’ll be able to sense what he’s going for with it. He might have his mouth slightly open, which would be rather forward so the date would have to have gone pretty well. More likely he’ll keep his lips closed, but soft. That keeps a possibility open on either side for one party or the other to change the pace of things. You know, up the ante or pull back. You could choose to do either. If he initiated, he’ll probably let you choose. At least if he’s a gentleman.”

Sherlock was absorbing all this, looking interested but intrigued. “How do you know all this?”

“Experience,” John said simply. “It’s like there’s a sort of unspoken etiquette to it all. You know, it’s interesting--I never really thought about it until just now, trying to describe it to you. But there really is. I suppose a lot of things are that way...we just don’t consciously think about it.”

Sherlock nodded, both to indicate that he understood what John meant (though the intense focus in his eyes spoke volumes about how these were the sorts of social cues he did not find intuitive), and that he should continue.

“If you decided to take things further you could very subtly sort of, brush his lower lip with the tip of your tongue. You’ll be able to tell right away if he’s open to the suggestion. If not, he’ll probably back away politely and end the kiss on a more restrained note. It’s not as awkward as it sounds, I promise.” _He won’t, though. Pull away._

Sherlock suddenly looked as though his thoughts were a million miles away. He stared at John unseeingly. “Hmmm,” he hummed.

John sipped at his cold tea. Sherlock mechanically followed suit.

“John,” he said suddenly, after a minute or so of silence.

“Hmm?” John looked at him over the rim of his cup as he finished the last of his tea in one swallow.

“Um.” Palpable self-consciousness flickered across Sherlock’s features. “Nevermind.”

“Hey,” John coaxed, setting his mug aside. “You can say it. Whatever it is, Sherlock, really, I won’t judge.”

Sherlock swiped one hand over his mouth, an unfamiliar, Johnnish gesture, and John watched him do it with a degree of worry swirling in his gut. He could almost pinpoint the moment when Sherlock closed down again. “I think...I think I'm going to retire, actually.”

“Already? It's only half-ten,” John said, his brow furrowed once again.

“Yes. I know. I'm surprisingly knackered.” Sherlock smiled, but it looked a little strained. “Must be all that food I ate.” He made a face to illustrate how awful eating was, but raised his tea cup in cheers to John. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Yeah,” John said, unsettled, as Sherlock rose to bring his cup to the sink. He shockingly remembered to collect John's as well as he passed by. “No problem. Oh, Sherlock...one last thing.”

Sherlock, already at the sink and rinsing their cups to avoid tea stains, glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

John pursed his lips, then went ahead and said it. It was bothering him too much, and Sherlock needed to believe. “Give yourself more credit, hmm? Matthew, looking at you 'like an entree’; people look at you that way all the time. It's the one thing I think you don't see.”

Sherlock did not respond. As he passed by John again, however, he touched his shoulder briefly without meeting John's inquisitive, upturned gaze.

Once he was alone again John remained seated at the table, listening as Sherlock went from his room to the bathroom and back again, readying for bed.

The detective did not turn out his light that night. Or, at least, not for a long time. John knew that because he checked on his way to bed.

It seemed that no one in 221b was going to sleep peacefully that night. John just wasn't sure why.


	4. Of Ugly Scarves and Symphonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More dating. More chaos. More Jealous John.

***

John tilted his chin down and raised his eyebrows, looking up at his crazed flatmate in disbelief. "Ice skating."

"That is what I said, yes."

"He's taking you...." John closed his book and put it aside pointedly. "Sherlock. You've never been ice skating in your life, have you."

"Mmm...that would be correct." Sherlock stood before him, hands clasped, looking at him calmly as though there wasn't a problem in the world.

John rubbed his forehead and sighed. It wasn't enough that Sherlock had a date scheduled for later in the week with Matthew--now he had one scheduled with some bloke named Alec for tonight, and it was evidently his intention to get himself killed. Ice skating!

"What in heaven's name made you think this would be a good idea?" John asked.

Sherlock's face became stormy. "Oh, I don't know, _John_ ," he snarked, "this is a _date_ isn't it? Isn't this what one does on _dates_?"

"Risk life and limb? Um, no not as such."

Sherlock blinked hard at him. "Life and limb? John. That's _our day job._ "

"True, all right, I'll grant you that, but is Alec a doctor?"

"No."

" _Will you_ have a doctor _at your beck and call?"_

"I said no, you imbecile! Unless you want to chaperone me like I'm a Victorian maiden," Sherlock spat.

John glared at Sherlock from his chair. Sherlock stood before him, glaring back.

"Why are we fighting?" John asked.

"Because I'm dating and you're being unreasonably paternal," Sherlock grumped. "Well--I say unreasonably, but the standard for how paternal you should be, John, is zero. _None_ paternal."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't have to!" Sherlock said petulantly, and threw himself onto the sofa, where he stretched out luxuriously, mood as instantaneously changeable as a cat's when he pleased. "Hand me your laptop."

John bit his lip, but brought him his laptop. Sherlock snatched it from his hand and John sighed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I just don't want to see you hurt. I'm sure you'll have a good time. You're right...I'm being unreasonable. Plenty of people go ice skating who've never been before."

Sherlock looked back at him, unphased. "Correct. And I suppose I can understand your concern, but you are forgetting the most essential part of all of this."

"And what's that?"

"That I'm brilliant at everything I do."

John snorted. "Yeah well, just stay home and blow up the kitchen, then. You're good at that too."

Sherlock satisfied John by smiling a little half-smile, though he was already typing away in a browser window, fingers flying over the keys.

John returned to his chair and took up his book again, but didn't open it. He just sat for a minute, listening to Sherlock type and click. Finally, unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't make him sound exactly like Sherlock had accused him of sounding, he returned to reading.

After about an hour Sherlock closed the laptop (hard, forcing John to summon all his willpower not to yell at him) and set it aside on the coffee table, then flounced from the room to get ready for his date.

***

When John let Alec into the flat, he was uncharitably pleased to notice the man had broken Sherlock's dress code by showing up in jeans. His small victory was squashed, however, when Sherlock also appeared wearing jeans. They must have discussed beforehand that wearing a suit to go ice skating was impractical.

And both men looked nice in their (undoubtably designer) jeans, too. Damn them both.

Alec was shorter than Matthew, but taller than John. His hair was a little lighter than Sherlock's; it leaned more toward rich espresso than almost-raven. His eyes were warm and honey-brown and something indefinable lent him a nerdy vibe (John later realized what it was: Alec was wearing a shortened rendition of the Fourth Doctor's scarf. Fortunately for him, Sherlock's knowledge regarding pop culture was abysmal or he might well have sent him packing based on that alone). John got an okay vibe off from him and might even have tried to like him under different circumstances. All he could see, however, was another guy looking to get into Sherlock's pants--whether that was a fair assessment or not.

But he'd play nice. Sherlock was right; he was a grown man and didn't need John's patronizing attitude.

"Hi," Alec said, looking Sherlock up and down with a friendly, approving grin which crinkled his nose.

It was _cute._ John wanted to _vomit_.

"Hello," Sherlock said, offering his hand in a handshake. "I see you've already met John."

"Yes," Alec said, immediately extending his hand to John as well. "Briefly."

John shook his hand.

"Oh!" Alec said, excited. He held up his other hand and waved the bag he was holding. "Good luck, too--my friend did have them in your size."

"Skates," Sherlock clarified for John's sake.

John wasn't really sure why he was still part of the conversation, but he couldn't stop standing there like an idiot, staring at them like a fish. "Oh," he said.

Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff and swung it on over his shoulders, then patted his pockets. "My gloves," he said. "One moment."

"Bring a scarf love, it's quite cold!" Alec called cheerily after him.

 _Love._ John felt his hand curl up in an involuntary fist. It was like a reflex; someone interacted with Sherlock in the wrong way, and it was like a funny bone was struck. A funny bone whose reflex resulted in bruising.

While they were momentarily alone, Alec gave John a _look_ and nodded after Sherlock. "He's your flatmate?"

"Yes, that's right. For quite a while now."

"And you're straight?"

"Yes."

Sherlock was emerging from his room once more and was now in earshot, so Alec just looked at John and mouthed, eyes wide, _"How?"_

John smiled tightly, eyes flat.

***

Sherlock had been gone for about an hour and twenty minutes (but who was counting?) when John's phone buzzed with a text. He picked his phone up off the coffee table and was quite surprised to see that it was Lestrade.

_Hey John. Can't reach Sherlock. Know where he is?_

_Yeah, out. Likely doesn't have his phone handy._

_Damn._

_Anything urgent?_

John gave it time. Five minutes passed, then ten; no response from Lestrade.

But it seemed like it might be important. Lestrade very rarely texted John to get to Sherlock. John had a crazy thought and sat for a minute mulling it over, picturing Sherlock on his date at the very picturesque Somerset House Rink. There was a Christmas tree, and fairy lights everywhere, and at night the atmosphere was undeniably romantic. John was guilty of taking some of his dates there himself (but mostly just the ones who he felt were way out of his league to begin with. It usually led to him getting lucky).

He sprang off the couch and grabbed his coat off its peg, practically running down the stairs as he pulled it on.

***

From a distance it was like looking into a snow globe: the lights, the tree, the skaters gliding along ice which was lit with a pale violet light. Everyone looked surreal against the glow. John remembered how it felt to be on that ice himself (he wasn't a terrible skater, actually): it was almost like being cocooned in a special pocket of time separate from everything else. No saying why that was, but it was true. Maybe it depended partly on who you were with.

John spotted Sherlock and Alec quickly; Sherlock always stuck out like a sore thumb in any crowd. He was striking--that was just the way of it.

John slowed his pace as he drew nearer to the rink, deciding to hang back and watch for a minute.

Sherlock and Alec were laughing; Sherlock was bracing himself with his hands on Alec's shoulders, looking a bit like a wobbly baby giraffe. Alec would cautiously skate backwards (show-off) and encourage Sherlock to follow, and Sherlock would move in jerky starts and stops, almost mowing the shorter man down. At one point he accidentally grabbed the end of Alec's scarf to catch himself, and Alec's eyes bulged momentarily as his life no doubt flashed before his eyes.

John laughed harder than was likely appropriate, trying to hold it back with one hand clapped over his mouth, eyes sparkling. Finally he quieted and watched as Alec finally encouraged Sherlock to try to keep his balance by holding onto just one of his hands. John saw Sherlock's eyes dart nervously from Alec's face to the proffered hand, saw him take it tentatively and try to resume his not-so-graceful trek around the ice.

Slowly, the detective was finding confidence. Gaining his sea-legs, so to speak. It was both lovely and...frightening to watch.

John swallowed hard and gasped in a breath, suddenly realizing he had stopped breathing. He decided that as loathe as he was to interrupt, Sherlock would never let him live it down if they missed out on a 9. He'd find a way to make it all John's fault and then he'd never hear the end of it....

Just as John got right up to the rink and was about to call to Sherlock, the detective wobbled dangerously. He went down, pulling Alec with him, landing in a way that looked--no doubt about it--awkward and painful. Alec collapsed with more skill: he landed like a pillow stuffed with goose feathers in comparison.

John ran to the side of the rink closest to where the two men were, trying to assess the situation. Sherlock didn't get back up immediately; Alec, alarmed, was offering his arm to boost him up.

"Sherlock!" John crashed against the barrier of the rink. "Sherlock! Are you hurt?!?"

Sherlock, who was half-way up, looked around in surprise. "John?"

"Yeah--it's me--can you put weight on that?"

As they were speaking, Sherlock had been trying to stand up straight. As he attempted to put weight on his left ankle, he winced. "Um...somewhat?"

Alec was eyeing John. His expression had gone from surprised to sullen in the space of about fifteen seconds. When Sherlock tugged his arm, however, he helped him to the side of the rink where John stood.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, looking baffled.

John offered an arm so Sherlock could support himself, then walked along the outside of the rink as he and Alec both worked on guiding Sherlock to the exit. "Lestrade has a case. Seemed urgent."

"Really?" Sherlock's eyes lit up. "A murder?"

Alec looked quickly between the two of them, eyes wide with alarm.

"Not sure. He didn't give me details. I figured if he was trying to get to you through me, though...."

"Yes. Okay." Sherlock limped his way out of the rink. "Wait for me. I'll come to you in a minute."

John nodded, feeling pleased in a way he didn't exactly want to examine too hard.

***

Back at Baker Street John did his best to lead the (very heavy and physically compromised) detective to the couch. As it was, he almost pulled John over onto him when he finally collapsed there.

"Blasted thing," Sherlock said, glaring at his ankle as John dutifully piled some pillows and then gently guided Sherlock's leg up so he could elevate it.

"Yeah," John said, working on gently removing Sherlock's shoe and sock. He rolled up the leg of his jeans enough to make an assessment. "You twisted it good." He shot his friend an apologetic look. "So much for your date with Matthew, I suppose. You'll never be able to get around on this."

"What? No!" Sherlock said obstinately. "I'll just RICE--rest, ice, compression, and elevation. Mrs. Hudson still has her boot from last year. I'll ask to borrow it."

"No, _I'll_ ask to borrow it. You'll stay right here and do nothing else," John said firmly.

Sherlock didn't argue, which said something about his pain level.

John frowned. "I'm sorry. This ruined your date. Or--I did. I'm not sure which."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Perhaps you were right...it was a silly endeavor."

"You were just trying to have fun."

"Not much fun now, is it."

John sighed. "All right. Rest here and I'll get that boot from Mrs. H."

Sherlock tipped his head back onto the pillows John had situated against the far arm rest, rolling his eyes and sighing dramatically at the ceiling.

***

Sherlock made for a surprisingly docile patient over the next couple of days, quietly watching movies with John and making more-civil-than-usual demands for tea and entertainment. He made a discovery, however, that made him side-eye John in confusion more than once (John kept pretending not to notice).

"There was no case," he said on the first day.

"Hmm?"

"Lestrade. He didn't have a case. He only asked you where I was because I wasn't answering my phone."

"Which...he never does. It seemed urgent."

"He merely wanted to ask me if I'd take a look at a particular cold case."

John shrugged as if to ask, _What do you want me to do about that?_ "Look, I made an assumption I suppose."

"Hmmm."

"Hmmmmm what?"

"Nothing."

Later that day the doorbell rang twice in a forty-five minute time span. The first time it was for the delivery of a bouquet of flowers from Matthew. The accompanying card read:

_Sorry about the ankle--let me know if Thursday is a no-go. Health comes first! Really look forward to seeing you again though. Text me. xoxo_

The second time it was for a box of specialty chocolates from Alec, also with a card:

_Apologies for the mishap. Here's something to sweeten your day. Hope we can try again!_

Sherlock read it and tossed it aside, unwrapping the chocolates and biting into one with a disdainful expression.

John chuckled. "I take it you won't be seeing him again?"

"No, I don't think I will. I didn't sense we were compatible. I also don't think the man knows how to color-coordinate...he was wearing the most hideous scarf, and it was evident from the wear that he pairs it with everything. Not that that's a deal-breaker, but...no."

John grinned and thought about explaining the scarf to Sherlock, but hesitated and then decided not to. Sherlock's complete lack of knowledge about (and interest in) all things pop-culture was part of what made him...well, him. There was something almost charming about it.

And he sort of didn't want Sherlock to change.

***

By Thursday night Sherlock had rested his ankle enough that he insisted to John that he was keeping his date.

"We're taking a cab, then walking into the symphony, finding our seats, _sitting_ and then returning home. In a cab. How much strain could I possibly place on my ankle in the brief interval of time required for walking, John?"

John frowned. "Well." Sherlock adored the symphony. "Yeah. Okay, I guess."

When Matthew made his appearance he looked even more posh than the first time. He smelled nice, too, like expensive cologne. The scent filled John's nose in an unobtrusive but persuasive way.

"Poor lamb," he said upon seeing Sherlock, and John had to suppress an eyeroll of epic proportions. "Are you sure you're up for this? I'm not put out if you aren't, I swear."

"Matthew," Sherlock said plainly, "one thing you'll find about me is that I never go out of my way to placate anyone."

Matthew laughed at this like it was the most brilliant thing he'd ever heard. The bastard.

***

Three hours. Three _hours._

Three and a _half_ hours.

Three hours and forty-five...for fuck's sake, how long was the symphony?

John googled.

_It varies, but most orchestra concerts are about 90 minutes to two hours long, with an intermission at the halfway point._

So help him, if Sherlock was walking around on that blasted ankle there'd be hell to pay.

He paced the sitting room. At the four-hour mark he was just about going insane and was trying to talk himself out of texting to check whether everything was all right...and then he heard...something. Downstairs.

It sounded like something at the front door, but no one seemed to be coming in.

Brow furrowed, John descended the stairs and pulled the front door open--

and caught Sherlock, who fell backward hard enough to almost knock him down. John acted on reflex and then looked up to meet Matthew's eyes. Matthew, who looked stunned and....

John's heart began to beat faster.

Sherlock struggled out of John's arms, batting him away. "Are you trying to kill me?!?"

"What? No! I--I heard something. At the door. I thought maybe you were trying to get your key in."

Sherlock was back on his own two feet and dusting himself off needlessly, glaring at John. "I do remember how to work a key."

John held his hands up in supplication. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

 _They were kissing. They were kissing. Against the bloody door._ Stomach churning, John backed away and then turned to go back upstairs. Once he reached the flat he went for the whiskey and poured himself a healthy glass, wishing harder than ever in his life that he could just--be invisible for a bit.

Sherlock's voice carried up the stairs as he wrapped up things with Matthew, but John couldn't hear what he was saying--and didn't try. He took a gulp of his drink, concentrating on the warmth of it going down.

Sherlock ascended the stairs finally, his tread slightly heavier than necessary. He shut the door to 221B and hung up his Belstaff. Irritation was practically radiating off him in a palpable cloud.

John, still at the counter, didn't turn around.

Sherlock strode into the kitchen a moment later and went about fetching a glass of water. "Did you do that on purpose?" he asked testily.

"On purpose? Why would I--of course not! How was I to know you'd be making out with him against the bloody door?"

Despite the anger evident in Sherlock's expression, the detective still blushed. His lips were slightly pinker than usual, which was a completely separate issue altogether.

"Why were you gone so long, anyway? I thought it was just the symphony?"

"He wanted to take me to dinner afterward. What was I supposed to do, say 'No, I've got to be back by curfew'?"

"You could have texted me. I was worried!"

"About what? John, I am a grown man!"

"A grown man with a bum ankle who I don't want to see taken advantage of!" John yelled.

Sherlock blinked, still looking peeved, and sat at the table. He drank his water and said after a long moment, a bit calmer, "Well I'm fine."

"Great," John said stiffly. "I'm glad."

He felt sick. He felt sick and claustrophobic and--and confused. Unable to stand there a moment longer anticipating how the conversation might go, he fled to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end it on this note! I'm not evil, I promise. Things will begin to shift in the next chapter. Hmm. Wonder what will happen. :D


	5. Warming Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a minor case and John (as usual) gets jealous over everything with two legs that gets close to Sherlock. Later, he surprises Sherlock. And is perhaps surprised in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for cherrybee5 who very nicely asked for extra chapters (and who I accidentally, stupidly tagged as co-creator for this chapter--leading to me having to delete the ENTIRE fic bc you can't undo that--I can't figure out how the heck to just tag them here after years on this site yeaaaahhh). Anyway, sorry to those of you who lost your subscription. I really hope you find this story again. :(
> 
> I had other plans for where I was going over the next two chapters, but made this little deviation (and said deletion, ugh). Hope you enjoy this one.

***

The following morning found them called out to a crime scene early: the body of a woman had been found in an alley next to a skip. She had no ID on her and had not been robbed, so the motive was unclear. Lestrade had a strong hunch that he knew the identity of the woman and that she was someone who had disappeared without explanation more than a year earlier; in short, it was a case just interesting enough to lure a very bored Sherlock out of the flat.

It was a frigid, rainy day. Anderson's team (in a rare show of competency) had set up an evidence tent to protect the scene. John and Sherlock entered it immediately upon their arrival and got down to business, crouching next to the dead woman to try and parse what they were dealing with. John quickly determined that the cause of death had been manual strangulation. Sherlock, with that information, flit here and there about the woman, checking her from head to toe for who-knew-what and muttering to himself. 

The sound of the rain striking the tent around them provided a nice backdrop for deduction, shutting out the outside world and lending them the illusion of impenetrable privacy. Sherlock seemed to feel it as well as John, because eventually--without looking up from the body--he murmured, “I apologize that I was so testy last night, John. I'm sure you meant well.” 

John was taken off guard for a moment by the contextual non-sequitur. He stared at the top of his friend’s head. “No. Um, no, Sherlock. Don't apologize. I've been way too pushy and overprotective lately. You were right to be irritated.”

Sherlock glanced up through his dark curls, then nodded briefly. “Apology accepted. But...mine still stands. For what it’s worth.”

“Thanks,” John said, feeling oddly touched. Which of course devolved immediately into a sense of awkwardness. 

Thankfully, Sherlock steamrolled right over it as he was wont to do. “Something was here,” he said abruptly, tilting his head and pointing next to the body. He looked up just in time to address one of the members of the forensics team, a mousy-looking woman who was ducking back in to check their progress. “Where's Anderson?”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly and she retreated quickly again without a word, presumably to fetch the man in question. Pretty much everyone knew better than to try to deal with Sherlock directly if they didn’t have to.

John's attention zeroed in on Sherlock's bare hands. “Where are your gloves?”

An expression of annoyance crossed Sherlock’s face. “I lost them last night,” he said grudgingly. “Must have fallen out of my pocket when our coats were checked at the symphony.”

“Ah.”

A man John only vaguely recognized entered the tent and nodded at them in greeting. “Anderson's out,” he told Sherlock. “Vacation. I'm Cal--I've been working pretty closely with him for the last couple months.”

“My condolences,” Sherlock said dryly. 

Cal smiled in response. “I've seen you once or twice at scenes--just hadn't said hello. I didn't want to intrude. You're brilliant at what you do though, Mr. Holmes. I'm a fan.”

John, one eyebrow raised, looked from Sherlock to “Cal” and back again to see what the response to that would be. It was usually quick, sharp, and amusing. 

Sherlock, however, merely blinked several times before settling on, “Thank...thank you.” He looked back at the body, cheeks coloring slightly, seemingly having lost his train of thought.

John determined that Cal needed to exit the tent asap.

Sherlock pointed again. “There was something here. Did anyone remove anything from the scene?”

Cal came around the body to look over Sherlock’s shoulder. “No.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. 

For the next several minutes he and Cal batted ideas and information back and forth while John pretended not to be bothered by their proximity. Once or twice he interjected, but for the most part it seemed to be a two-man huddle. 

“I’ll retrace everyone’s steps,” Cal finally concluded. “Would you mind giving me your number so I can keep you updated, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock held his card out. John’s eagle eyes did not miss the way Cal’s fingers brushed Sherlock’s as it was transferred. The doctor glared hard at the forensics officer’s back as he exited the tent again. When he turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze, his friend raised an eyebrow at him.

“What?” John asked. “He was _blatantly_ flirting. Are you really going to tell me that you’re fine with that at crime scenes now?”

Sherlock just stared at him for a long moment, then blushed slightly. “I...I realize he was. It must be all the recent socializing; I don’t think I would have picked up on it before. I find I’m simply...more aware of these things now.” He shrugged self-consciously and stood, moving to take in the scene again for a final time from another angle. John stood and joined him, silently perplexed that his friend didn’t seem more bothered.

Sherlock flexed his hands at his sides; John caught the motion in his peripheral vision and glanced down. “We’ll have to get you new gloves. It’s too cold to be without.”

Sherlock sighed, no doubt at the tediousness of the idea of a shopping trip, but was startled out of his irritation when John grabbed his hands. “What are you--”

“Oh hush,” John said, rubbing them briskly between his own, having removed his own gloves to do so. He massaged the detective’s individual fingers gently to restore their range of motion, then raised them up to his mouth and blew warm air into their mutually cupped hands. It was all very automatic and clinical--until he looked up.

Sherlock was watching his ministrations, his puzzled expression softened by a subtle glint of vulnerability in his eyes. Someone who didn’t know him as well would likely have missed it altogether.

John swallowed hard, gaze skittering away...but then he gathered up his courage and looked again. 

_Oh._

Just like that, it hit him: the real reason he kept “accidentally” interfering with Sherlock’s dates. He replayed again, in his mind, the sight of Cal’s fingers brushing Sherlock’s as he took his card from him, and this time when the flare of jealousy surged John recognized it (with dread) for what it was. 

God. He was such an idiot. 

He stared into Sherlock’s shocking blue gaze and felt his own soften, massaging into Sherlock’s palm with his thumb. He bent his head and breathed hot air into their cupped hands and over the detective’s pale digits one last time, consciously enjoying the closeness of the moment, then squeezed gently and released him. He tried to clear the lump from his throat and said, in as jovial a tone as he could muster, “That--um...that should do for a bit.”

Sherlock slowly tucked his hands into his pockets, staring at John. “Thank you,” he finally said. The barest trace of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

***

True to form, Sherlock solved the case within a day (and with only one unsolicited call from their new buddy “Cal” which, John noted as he listened in casually to Sherlock’s side, seemed to be all business).

And then things quieted down again. Sherlock experimented, John checked email and scanned the paper for cases, and...Sherlock didn’t seem to be going out. Five days after the case had wrapped John sat down across from Sherlock, who was in his chair with his fingers steepled. 

“Haven’t seen Matthew around,” he mentioned as casually as possible, shaking out the paper and scanning over the page.

Sherlock appeared to be half-lost in thought. “Mmm. No.”

“Any...particular reason? I thought that was going well.”

Sherlock’s gaze remained glued to the carpet, his expression unreadable. “I think he was insulted that I wouldn’t kiss him.”

John froze, then lowered the paper entirely, brow furrowed in confusion. “But I thought--you--”

“I know what you assumed. The fact is that what you interrupted was Matthew making a move while I nervously chewed my own lips to pieces like a school boy and _waffled_.” Sherlock’s tone was venomous with self-deprecation.

John blinked hard. “Oh.” The silence that followed was thick. John hesitated, not wanting to poke the hornet’s nest. 

Sherlock sensed what he wasn’t asking, of course. “It just didn’t...feel like the right time.”

John nodded. “Well...that’s fine. I mean, it’s your right to say no. If he wasn’t willing to be patient then it’s just as well he’s gone.”

Sherlock sighed testily and finally looked up. “John. What man my age is going to remain patient in the face of such reticence? I’m too old for this.” He paused. “I don’t suppose that it was ever going to feel right with him.”

John went back to his paper, sensing that he shouldn’t probe further. He stared unseeingly at the text before him. They were now entering the second week of December, which meant that the deadline for the silly challenge they’d agreed upon was looming. He hoped Sherlock wasn’t taking it too seriously. He knew his friend had a difficult time feeling “normal” as it was. He thought about trying to reassure him, but he knew that would only result in getting his head bitten off for treating his “unfeeling” friend with kid gloves.

***

The week crept slowly by. They had another minor case, but other than that it was life as usual at 221B...except now that John had privately named his attraction he had plenty of time to worry about it: how much he secretly enjoyed the way Sherlock would callously snub others and seek his approval only; how nice it was having a quiet dinner in whether they had cooked or ordered a take-out; the easy silence they shared in the backs of cabs post-case; the way they could communicate with just a glance without even realizing they were doing so in the moment. John couldn’t remember a single relationship in his life where he’d ever been so in-synch with another person, not even in Afghanistan.

And then there were the things which came with sharing a flat: the smell of the lounge after Sherlock had gotten out of the shower and the humidity still hung in a heavy cloud (Sherlock liked to boil himself); the strange intimacy of their mixed laundry and the fact that John was almost embarrassingly familiar with every pair of silky pants the detective owned; the fact that John actually understood Sherlock’s ridiculous sock index even if he had been expressly forbidden from “trifling with it.”

So then Cal had to begin texting Sherlock. 

John found out one evening when he caught Sherlock smirking at his mobile. “What’s so funny?”

The smirk dissolved. “Nothing,” Sherlock said, suspiciously quickly, tucking it away. When he got up a few minutes later, however, he (accidentally? Not so accidentally? John could torment himself to the edge of sanity with such questions) left his phone on the coffee table and John saw the forensics officer’s name pop up on a text notification. He scowled at it. 

He was still stewing the following day (and trying to be subtle about it) when Sherlock informed him that he had a date for the following night. With guess-who. The news prompted John to immediately decide to make a run to Tesco.

On his way out, still shrugging into his jacket, he just about ran over Mrs. Hudson coming through the front door downstairs.

“Goodness, John, what’s the rush?” she scolded, one hand on her chest.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I was distracted--”

She looked him over shrewdly and bumped the door shut with her good hip. Before John could protest, she was herding him into her flat. “I’d need my eyes examined if I didn’t recognize that look by now. You and Sherlock’ve had a domestic, haven’t you?”

“No,” John said, feeling greatly embarrassed. “It’s not that. I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I appreciate your concern but I really do need to get the shopping--”

“Sit!” she commanded sharply, and John Watson had planted himself at her table almost before the word was fully out of her mouth.

Jesus. Mrs. Hudson really should work for MI6, John thought with some chagrin as he was grilled half to death over the next thirty minutes. 

By the time he had left her flat he had a new shopping list and half a mind to flee the country, most preferably to someplace without an extradition treaty with England.

***

John had a course of action. He still wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do with it even though it was mostly his own (a vague idea which Mrs. Hudson had helped him solidify). He still had a day and a half left until he could put it into action. The waiting was the worst part.

Sherlock’s date with Cal was straightforward enough at least: dinner and a movie. The restaurant was nothing fancy and the flick was a comedy which John would never have dreamed of trying to sit through with Sherlock next to him. He was privately amused at the idea of what truly must have been--for Cal--an excruciating experience listening to Sherlock heartlessly eviscerate the plot while everyone in hearing distance shushed them. Needless to say, there was no goodnight kiss at the door and no immediate plans for a second date. 

Sherlock was surprisingly gracious about it when he described the whole thing to John, admitting that Cal was probably seeking someone lighthearted who could be a little less literal. Appropriately, on the heels of that, he informed John that Molly had an interesting body for him and so he’d likely be at the morgue most of the following day. John pretended this was news to him (thank god for Molly and her willingness to do favors).

***

When Sherlock arrived home the following evening, John could tell he was in a good mood just by his tread on the stairs. Which was great, because John could not possibly have been any more nervous. He was in the kitchen just taking the lid off their chocolate ice cream to check and see if it had softened from its former rock-like state.

John glanced out into the lounge as the door shut, watching as the distracted detective rummaged around every cluttered surface for his mobile charger and laptop, plugging things in and distractedly murmuring to himself.

“Hey,” John called, tentatively, and was amused to see Sherlock start visibly.

“Oh,” he said. “Hello, John.” He flopped onto their couch, laptop having been located, and his fingers began to fly over the keys.

“Good day?”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock affirmed, eyes glued to the screen. He sounded affable enough, however, so at least this wasn’t the infamous moody cold-shoulder. 

“I’ve got dinner together when you feel up to eating,” John said, trying to calm the churning in his stomach.

Sherlock’s fingers hesitated for a micro-second in their frantic clacking. “Food,” he said, as though it was a novel concept. “Yes, actually. Ten minutes?”

“Sounds good,” John agreed. _Gives me time to take some Pepto._

***

John ended up spending those ten minutes on presentation. He laid everything out just so, and was (pleasantly? He couldn’t even be sure what the feeling in his stomach was) surprised when Sherlock actually stayed close to on-target with his time estimate.

He came to stand in the kitchen doorway and froze. His eyes widened. “John?”

“Happy Birthday,” John said, his smile flickering nervously. He watched Sherlock’s face carefully. 

Sherlock blinked, a long slow blink. “What…?”

John shuffled where he stood next to the table, which actually had a nice cream linen cloth on it he’d borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, and a decadent black forest cake (yes, homemade by John himself; hopefully he’d remembered all the ingredients) with a whipped cream and cherry topping. The sides of the cake were sprinkled with decorative crumbs (very nearly unintentional, that part). Beyond that there were white tapered candles in fancy glass holders on the table, and the kitchen was squeaky clean. A bottle of red wine sat open to breathe on the counter behind John. As far as John could tell, wine didn’t actually pair well with black forest cake but...well, he was no snob, and he would certainly need some alcohol relatively soon.

“I thought you might be busy on your birthday,” John explained in a rush, his chest feeling tight with his nervousness. “And whether you are or not, well, I think I sort of accidentally put a lot of pressure on that day for you and so I wanted to surprise you and...take the pressure off and...spend it with you early.”

Sherlock gaped at him. Eventually he was able to close his mouth, but something complicated had happened in his eyes in the meantime. 

He looked...touched? John hoped that was what he was seeing. 

“Um,” John gestured to a chair at the table. “Sit? If you want.”

Finally, Sherlock smiled. It was a small, tremulous thing. He took a seat at the table. “This looks excellent, John,” he said as John lit the candles on the table and the single small candle on top of the cake. “And...surprisingly thoughtful. You didn’t need to….”

“I wanted to,” John said simply. He turned to the wine. “Would you like a glass? I know it doesn’t go, but--”

“Sure,” Sherlock said easily with a shake of his head, sounding pleased. 

John poured and brought a glass for each of them to the table, then sat down across from Sherlock. He passed the glass over and Sherlock took it, still looking a little shell-shocked. He smiled at John, though, and it was such a warm and genuine smile that John felt his throat close alarmingly.

He took a drink to force it open again and breathed steadily through his nose.

Sherlock studied the cake. “You made this,” he said. It wasn’t a question. John didn’t kid himself that it had been terribly difficult to deduce.

“Yeah. It might even be edible,” John joked.

Sherlock’s blue eyes fixed on him steadily, the candlelight flickering across the small smile which had never left his face. 

John realized after a moment that he was just staring. Finally he blinked and nodded at the cake. “Make a wish?”

Sherlock’s smile quirked to the side and he rolled his eyes at the childish suggestion, but then his eyes lit with a playful parody of inspiration. He stared at the tiny flame before him for a moment, then blew it out. As the tiny stream of smoke wafted away he met John’s eyes again and pouted. “You didn’t sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“What I did was do you a favor,” John laughed. “I can’t carry a tune for the life of me, even the simplest one.” He suddenly realized that while he had plates and silverware, he didn’t have the proper utensils at hand to cut the cake. “Shoot--one sec.” He jumped up to dig through their drawer of miscellaneous items. Well, the specific drawer of miscellaneous items he needed in that moment.

“So is this an instance of dessert-for-dinner?”

John found what he was looking for and tried to suppress a blush before turning around. The truth was that he understood the implications of chocolate: it was a little romantic, and though his intention here had been (mostly) pure, he hadn’t wanted to distract from the subtle undertone of seduction that could be implied. Dangerous ground, he was aware, but well. He’d been watching other men make a pass for weeks now--he could have at least this, couldn’t he? Besides, the truth of it was that Sherlock had a finicky appetite at the best of times. John doubted whether Sherlock could do a three course dinner and then a rich slice of cake on top. And the man had a sweet tooth. Serving him cake directly seemed the most efficient solution.

“Are you disappointed?” he asked as he came back to the table.

Sherlock actually snorted. “Of course not. I just thought it seemed a little out of character for you.”

“Well,” John said, setting about cutting the cake, “this isn’t _for_ me.” _Mostly,_ he thought a little guiltily. He toppled a slice of cake onto one of the plates and slid it over to Sherlock, then turned around again to scoop some ice cream.

Sherlock twisted in his chair to watch. “Ice cream too?” He sounded amused. “Trying to fatten me up still?”

“Hasn’t worked yet,” John teased. “Guess I have to keep trying.” He brought a bowl back for each of them and cut his own slice of cake while Sherlock took his first bite. 

“Oh my god,” he said, his mouth full, and John nearly dropped his silverware at the low rumble of his friend’s pleased voice.

He cleared his throat. “Good?”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in response, as rudely as possible, and John laughed. 

They ate in silence for a minute. John had done a decent job on the cake, if he did say so himself. Mrs. Hudson should probably have a slice as thanks for kicking him in the pants, but he knew Sherlock’s rarely-indulged sweet tooth was probably going to put paid to that idea fairly quickly.

John set his fork aside for a moment and watched Sherlock eat, smiling at his obvious enjoyment. “Sherlock….”

“Hmm?” Sherlock swallowed and sipped his wine, very briefly making a face at the clashing tastes (which John did not fail to notice, and which made him light up inside with fondness rather than annoyance).

“I just wanted to say. Last year, on your birthday….”

Sherlock sighed lightly.

“I encouraged you to go after The Woman. I realize now how ridiculous that was and I wanted to...well, apologize for not being a better friend. For not taking you seriously about your lack of interest and observing what was in front of me. It wasn’t that I cared if you were gay, I hope you know that. I just...I wasn’t sure. And what I saw when you were with her seemed like the closest thing to interest in another person I'd ever seen you show...that way. Well, so I thought.”

Sherlock barked one harsh but not unfriendly laugh. “That’s the thing about heteronormativity, John,” he said wryly. “It’s a hell of a drug. Irene a lesbian and myself a gay man. A true match made in heaven.” He scraped at some chocolate and crumbs on his plate thoughtfully with his spoon. "Irene was a surprise is all. She presented me with a challenge, which most people don't do. My interest was purely intellectual. It was all just part of the...bigger game."

John laughed and rubbed his forehead, embarrassed. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Sherlock shook his head gently, not seeming too put out. “Don’t worry about it. Ancient history.”

"Hmmm." John leaned his cheek on one fist and tried not to be affected by the sight of Sherlock licking ice cream off his spoon. Jesus.... "Oh--" suddenly and mercifully remembering, he felt around on the seat of the chair next to him beneath the table and came up with a silver package with a bow on it. "I got you something!"

Sherlock accepted the gift, once again looking surprised. He tore the paper off and smiled, bemused. "Saving me some shopping, John?" He let the paper fall to the table and examined the gloves John had purchased. They were black, buttery-soft leather, even nicer than his old ones. Sherlock slid them on and flexed his hands.

"Like them?"

Sherlock nodded. "Very much. Thank you."

"They weren't what I'd planned on getting you, but I was afraid if I didn't replace the ones you lost you'd go the rest of the winter without. So anyway, they aren't your real gift I guess is what I'm saying. I haven't decided what to give you yet."

Sherlock's eyes glinted with mischief. "Well. We might already know, mightn't we."

John was confused for a moment before he clued in to the fact that Sherlock was referring to their deadline. He felt his cheeks heat and was mortified that he could do nothing to hide it. 

Sherlock smirked shamelessly.

"Hush, you," John mumbled self-consciously, biting on the corners of a grin. He finished his wine and got up for a refill, snagging Sherlock's glass on the way by. "I meant to ask," he blurted, immeasurably glad to have thought of something else to say, "what should we do for New Year's? I wasn't sure if you wanted to have a little get-together this year, or?"

John sensed a hesitation even before he turned around. He went back to the table, handing Sherlock his refreshed glass. 

"I feel a bit awful saying this since you've gone so out of your way for me today with this nice...presentation," Sherlock gestured around the kitchen, oozing all his usual social awkwardness, "but I heard from Matthew today while I was at the lab. He...invited me out for that evening."

John nodded, keeping his face overly neutral, eyes widened in a show of understanding as he held up a hand. "Of course. No problem, you have plans. I should have said something sooner."

Sherlock looked guilty. "I can cancel."

"No! Don't do that. Absolutely not. You're finally making some social plans, I mean--you know, good for you. It's great that you _want_ to. I'm not going to punish you for having a social life outside of me. Don't be silly."

Sherlock bit his lower lip in hesitation. "What will you do with your evening then?"

"Pffft, it's fine. I have a plan B. Stamford invited me out for drinks if I had nothing else on. His wife isn't much for New Year's--she's the early-to-bed type." John sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

Sherlock did not look convinced. His gaze skittered away from John, over the cake and the linen cloth, the new gloves which he had piled neatly one on top of the other. "All right...I suppose."

 _New Years,_ John mused. He wondered if he should caution Sherlock that Matthew might have been trying to make clear, with that invitation, that he would try to make a move at midnight. 

But...no. He'd already interfered enough. He didn't want to come across as overbearing again and ruin the nice atmosphere in the flat. Besides, maybe Sherlock--despite his faux-flirting with John a minute earlier--understood what the invitation meant perfectly. John's heart sank at the thought. He snuck a glimpse at Sherlock and saw that he was already being studied in return. John quickly schooled his expression. He slapped the table gently. "Well. I'm actually knackered. I think I might turn in early. But, it was good, really?" He nodded around at the setup.

Sherlock's gaze was reserved. He nodded slightly, the candlelight reflecting in his dark pupils. 

John stood and began collecting plates, and Sherlock joined him. They moved around each other putting things away. Neither turned on the kitchen light; instead, they navigated the familiarity of their kitchen in the flickering shadows.

They both ended up at the sink at the same moment to rinse their glasses, but Sherlock surprised John by plucking his from his fingers. He set both next to the sink and turned to face him. "So. Being that this is _my_ birthday celebration, and I have some rather important decisions to make rather soon, I wondered if you might humor me, John, by allowing me to...assess my options."

John stared at him blankly. "What?" 

Sherlock bit his lips and hesitated. "Well. I've been dating, as suggested...I've been out with several men, all of whom I suppose could still be potential mates, although..." he made a face, "poor ones. Yes. Quite poor. But you, John, are also on the list and I have no criteria on which to judge you beyond our friendship."

John was pretty sure he couldn't feel his fingers. Or maybe any part of himself. "Okay," he said stupidly, waiting for further explanation.

Sherlock studied him for a moment. Then, without further warning, ducked in and kissed the corner of John's mouth so briefly that the blond didn't have time to react. Sherlock straightened again and met his eyes, which felt very very wide.

Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips with something that looked like appraisal. "Thank you," he eventually said.

"Um," John said, even more stupidly. "Sure." He hesitated, wanting to pull the other man back down to him. He resisted with everything he had and instead took one awkward step back, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm...I'll be going to bed now."

"Goodnight, John." 

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back all while he walked to the stairs leading up to his room, and couldn't help but wonder if he was being privately laughed at. 

Sherlock watched as John disappeared up the stairs. When he heard the door upstairs close, he went to the lounge and unplugged his mobile from the charger. He tapped the screen and went to his contacts, then dialed.

"Hi," he said when the other end was picked up. "Matthew."


	6. Illuminate Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to behave himself, there's a party at 221B, and Sherlock is bad at communicating. That about sums it up.

***

John couldn’t stop thinking about that peck in the kitchen. Sherlock’s lips on his, however fleeting and off-center.

An “assessment,” Sherlock had called it. But what had he been assessing? What data could Sherlock have collected from something so brief, so...aunt-ish? 

_“John, I love you dearly but you truly are an idiot,”_ Mrs. Hudson had told him after yanking him so abruptly into her flat. 

He hadn’t been able to help but snort in shock, half-amused and half-offended that she could sound so much like Sherlock.

 _“You’ve encouraged him to date,”_ she’d said. _“Now you need to leave him alone and let him. You’ve no right to be jealous. Sherlock doesn’t have experience with these things; and you young man have plenty. I have eyes,”_ she’d chastised, giving him a true _Don’t kid a kidder_ look. _“If you care for his well-being you need to let him go about this his way. If he decides you’re it for him he certainly won’t be too shy to let you know.”_

He hadn’t told her everything, of course. Hadn’t told her about Sherlock’s virginity, or the deadline and the fact that he himself had volunteered to...well, help rid Sherlock of same. He’d told her that his plan had been to find Sherlock someone to date, and she’d nearly smacked him upside the head. She wasn’t stupid, after all. _“A birthday is a time for friends and family. For enjoyment. You see how long it took him to let his guard down enough that you even knew when his birthday was. Why do you think that is?”_

John, embarrassingly, hadn’t been able to answer. He’d sheepishly admitted as much.

_“Because his birthdays growing up were always about what others wanted of him. His family saw no use for anything but self-improvement; material possessions were ‘silly.’ He was given ridiculous gifts: math lessons, horseback riding lessons, violin lessons. Lessons upon lessons--things no child would ever ask for.”_

_“But...he enjoys the violin,”_ John had pointed out. He’d received a death-glare in return.

 _“John Hamish Watson, that is not the point,”_ she’d scolded, almost shrill, and for the millionth time John cursed the fact that he’d been talked into putting his middle name on the wedding invitations. _“He was only a boy, and eager to please. He did what was asked of him. But it ruined his birthday for him. By the time I met him he wanted nothing to do with it. I had to get the date from his mother. Every year I pretend I don’t know, and every year I make his favorite biscuits and give them to him a day or two offset. He certainly knows what I'm up to but he never says anything and neither do I.”_ She’d put her hands on her hips and shaken her head in disbelief, golden-brown curls bouncing. _“You need to find a way to undo what you’ve done.”_

John was sternly reminding himself of the conversation now--the morning after he’d presented Sherlock’s cake to him--because all he wanted to do was march downstairs and show Sherlock what a real assessment of their compatibility would involve: the sort of kiss he might have given the detective years ago, if not for...well. Them. 

But Mrs. Hudson had an excellent point: he had no right to make this about himself. Sherlock needed to be allowed to make his own decisions about where his interests lay. If that wasn’t with John, then...so be it. 

John couldn’t hold it against Sherlock that he himself had taken so long to see the light.

***

Sherlock was nowhere to be found when the doorbell began ringing on Christmas Eve. Which was fine, John thought, since he was more than happy to greet their friends without Sherlock being a Grinch in the background. Let them at least get a drink in first.

“Molly! So lovely of you to come,” he said, hugging her briefly. Her hair was crisp with product against his cheek, her perfume soft and pleasant. She was wearing a pretty blue dress and grinning ear-to-ear as though she'd never had her festive spirit grievously destroyed at 221B before. Good on her. 

“It's so nice you could have a proper do like this again,” she said with all her usual infectious cheer. She held up some flashy metallic gift bags. “Should I just--under the tree?” 

“Oh, yes, please--really though, you didn't need to go to any trouble, Molly.”

She was already pushing past him with a good-natured shake of her head, making for the pretty faux Christmas tree. John had erected it several days prior and had even persuaded Sherlock to help with decorating. (It was that, he'd threatened the detective, or he'd go out and get the _real_ tree he wanted.) It was now loaded with an abundance of mismatched decorations.

Before John could think about closing the door behind Molly, Greg barged in downstairs and came trotting up. He was comfortably dressed down for once in a soft-looking green sweater and blue jeans. He grinned and clapped his hand into John's for a shake. “Nice to see you mate. Place looks nice!”

“Thanks!” John gestured expansively. “Come in, help yourself. Mrs. Hudson made a bunch of food, as you can see.” 

Greg's eyes lit up as he spotted a platter of brownies on the coffee table. He made a beeline for them while John watched, grinning. Mrs. Hudson’s baked goods had a tendency to turn people into five-year-olds with grabby fingers. 

Something moved in his peripheral vision, catching John’s attention, and he turned his head to see that Sherlock had decided to join them. He was sidling over to a tray of goodies himself, unaware as of yet that he was being watched. That was just as well because John needed a moment to deal with his astonishment that not only had his flatmate made an appearance without being nagged, but had also apparently put some effort into his appearance: his hair, while always impressive, seemed to have been styled with more care than usual. He was wearing his black suit trousers with a purple shirt which complimented his coloring perfectly. John was, frankly, not just watching: he was staring. 

The detective, oblivious of all the attention being paid to him, selected and nibbled at a cracker. A light shower of crumbs rained onto his dark shirt. He raised an eyebrow and stuffed the rest of his snack into his mouth, hastening to brush the offending crumbs away. He looked up then as though sensing John’s gaze, meeting his eyes and smiling self-consciously. He swept a crumb from the corner of his mouth with one delicate fingertip. 

For no reason John felt a warm swoop of affection in the pit of his stomach. 

“Drinks!” Mrs. Hudson announced, and John almost jumped out of his skin when he simultaneously felt a hand pat him unexpectedly on the back. 

He turned to see Mike Stamford grinning widely at him, having evidently been let in by Mrs. Hudson at some point. “Mike! Hey!”

Mike nodded jovially. “Hello, John. How are you?”

“Great, thanks. You?” He gave a cursory look around the room. “Your wife didn’t mind you coming out?”

“No, she’s got her sister over.” Mike winked. “Best if I clear out for that.”

John laughed, and then Mrs. Hudson was there handing them both drinks and landing a friendly peck on Mike’s cheek. 

John opened his mouth to say something further but was interrupted by a dramatic flurry of notes from Sherlock’s violin. A pleased murmur of agreement went around the room and everyone moved immediately to find a comfortable spot. John, of course, settled into his chair (always the best spot in the house, since Sherlock invariably stood before the window when he played).

The brunet apparently had it in mind to impress them all not only with his skill, but also his rarely demonstrated sentimentality: he started off with a song he’d played several times on the evening of their one and only ill-fated party at 221B years prior. 

Judging from the looks on everyone’s faces, they remembered as clearly as John did. He rested one cheek against his fist and watched the other man throw himself into playing: the movement of his graceful fingers, his deft handling of the bow, the gentle white curve of his stupid long neck. 

God, he was beautiful. John smiled privately, not the least bit bothered by the thought. He was too happy at the moment, too relaxed to fret about something as ordinary as loving the right person. Loving them and finally admitting it, too. 

The flat filled with the cozy smell of some candle Mrs. Hudson had lit: apples and cinnamon with a hint of caramel. Between that and the evocative scent of wrapping paper and scotch tape, John truly felt like it was Christmas. He found himself longing to experience it every year, but it was rare that he got to stop and do so. He was a sucker for proper holidays. Not that he hadn’t shared some rather nice ones with Sherlock over the years, but they were usually anything but traditional. More often than not the flat didn’t even get decorated. 

No more, John decided, gazing around at the fairy lights and sprigs of holly and festive whatnots. From now on the flat would be decorated every single year. Life was too short to overlook the good things, no matter how small. Sherlock couldn’t fool him, anyway: he enjoyed it too.

***

“All right,” Mrs. Hudson said once they had all sufficiently plied themselves with food and drink and switched over to the radio to give Sherlock a break from playing. “Gifts! Yes?”

She began passing them around without actually waiting for an answer, and soon the flat was filled with the sounds of tearing paper and “thank you”s and laughter over some of the sillier items (most of which came from Lestrade). Sherlock was quite pleased with a selection of trickier cold cases the DI had gifted him, complete with a big red bow. 

Tucked in closest to the tree were the gifts from John to Sherlock and vice versa, as well as their gifts to their friends, so that batch came out last. John surreptitiously watched Sherlock tear open the envelope containing his gift. He was pretty sure he’d found the one thing that would please his friend immensely; he certainly hoped it would anyway, because he’d never planned any gift more expensive. He’d also spent far too long agonizing over what to write and could remember every word of it:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Happy Christmas._

_I know you’re not much for the holidays, but well, I am and so you will be subjected to it along with all us lesser humans. While the holidays are mostly a time for being with friends and family and appreciating each other and blah blah blah, I’m aware that you’re not overly fond of anything that doesn’t involve actual blood and guts. Which brings me to the gifting._

_The reason I’m only giving you this card for now is that your gift is complicated and involves time and planning, so I thought I’d leave that bit up to you. I’d like for you to choose a date for me to take you to to The Mütter Museum in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I’ve heard you mention their collection in passing once or twice over the years and I figured this was one thing I could do for you that wouldn’t be overly dull. Also, I figure no one else is apt to make this gift redundant by getting you the same thing._

_I hope the idea pleases you. I think it could be nice to have a bit of a holiday away from London anyway, just the two of us without any cases on for a short while._

_Your friend always,_

_John_

While Sherlock was reading, John had a minor attack of nerves wherein he decided that he didn’t want to watch his friend’s reaction. He busied himself instead with opening his own oddly-shaped package from the detective.

Which turned out to be...a jar of honey. John looked it over, mystified, only growing more so when he read the label. He blinked, finally noticing that there was a small note folded and taped to the side of the hexagonal jar. He tore it free.

_John,_

_It’s a good thing honey doesn’t expire: I’ve had this gift for you since early summer, directly after it was produced by the bees. I am relieved to finally present it to you, as patience is not my forte (surely no great revelation to you by now)._

_I have an immense love of bees and of honey both. This begs the question of the chicken and the egg and which came first in more regards than one, since for me both the insect and its product are inextricably tied to my childhood memories of Sussex. My grandmother had a cottage there when I was a boy; I always looked forward to staying with her since I would study the hives and court diabetes by putting honey on everything edible for the duration of my visit._

_While my grandmother has long since passed, it has always been at the back of my mind to return to Sussex one day when I am ready to retire. I plan to have my own little cottage, and keep my own bees._

_This note is disgustingly long and sentimental, but I felt that context was needed in order for you to understand what led me to the gift you now hold:_

_This past spring I was made aware of a little start-up apiary close to where my grandmother used to reside. The owners had an interesting scheme going: in order to raise money for much-needed renovations and supplies, they were allowing people to “adopt” their hives. In exchange for the adoption fee, benefactors would acquire the right to name their hive. The name would henceforth appear on every jar of honey produced from it._

_I think at this point my gift has become self-explanatory. I hope that you enjoy it. It is also symbolic as an open invitation to you: once the (far distant, no doubt) day of my retirement arrives, I would like for you to stay with me in the Sussex countryside as often as you please. Wherever I am there will always be a place for you._

_I would hope that was evident by this juncture, but I am not the most demonstrative man (as you are so fond of reminding me)._

_Also you should probably hide this from me or I_ will _eat it._

_\--SH_

John laughed hard at that, which was a very good thing as it prevented him from bursting into ridiculous (and highly embarrassing) tears in front of all of their friends. 

The label on the jar of honey read:

_“The John Watson”  
Francis Farms Apiary  
Sussex_

John swallowed, then pretended to suddenly become aware of his empty glass. He stood swiftly and disappeared into the kitchen with it, clutching it like a lifeline.

Once the door closed behind him, he set the jar of honey down on the counter and stared accusingly at it. He felt too many different things at the same time: unspeakably touched; surprised; melancholy at the idea of Sherlock retiring somewhere out in the country, necessitating that John make long trips planned in advance to see him. 

He found a half-full bottle of champagne sitting out and refilled his glass from it. He heard the door open behind him just as he was finishing, and braced himself.

“Everything alright?” Sherlock asked, sounding uncertain.

“Yes!” John said brightly (no doubt too brightly). “Empty drink. Needed a refill. You?” He glanced over at Sherlock and flashed him a smile that probably looked demented.

“Sure.” Sherlock’s eyes were full of questions as he held out his glass to John. John took it and promptly began to pour, pretending not to notice. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock continued. “For the gift, it’s…a marvelous idea and entirely unexpected. You didn’t have to go to so much effort.”

“Nonsense! If anything it’s a bit selfish. We’ll both enjoy it, after all, what with all the medical oddities we’ll see. I’m pleased that you like it though.” 

Sherlock reclaimed his drink and sipped at it, saying nothing in response. He no doubt could sense John’s tension. 

John took a drink from his own glass and then let out a huge gusty sigh, shaking his head. “I’m...sorry, I’m just. I mean.” He looked at his friend, feeling helpless and fond and completely overcome and hoping against hope that the depth of all that didn’t show on his face, complete with footnotes. “Likewise, Sherlock, your gift took some planning and comes as a surprise. A rather nice one. I suppose we both outdid ourselves.”

Sherlock finally smiled. “Really? You like it? It isn’t....” he wrinkled his nose. “Ridiculous?”

John stepped hard on an urge to kiss the perplexed wrinkle. “Not in the least.” His voice lowered involuntarily to a whisper. “I’m very touched.”

A suspicious sparkle came to Sherlock’s eyes then, one that (for once) had nothing to do with mirth or mischief. He cleared his throat and nodded at the jar on the counter. “Going to try it?”

John snorted, but grinned. “On what?”

Sherlock pretended to be scandalized. “John. Everyone knows that to truly appreciate honey you must taste it on its own.” He seemed to consider for a moment. “If we didn’t have company I’d break down the technicalities for you more, but since we do….” He opened a drawer and drew out a plastic spoon leftover from when they’d gotten a takeout. “Just eat it.”

John chuckled and accepted the spoon. He opened the jar and scooped up about a teaspoon of the golden honey, feeling silly that he was about to eat it plain. He would take Sherlock’s word for it though, as he did with most things. He slid the spoon over his tongue, curved side up, and let the flavor unfold on his tastebuds. It was surprisingly less sweet than he’d expected: it was floral and had mild almond notes, finishing with something subtle that reminded him of licorice. 

“Wow,” he murmured. “That’s really nice.”

Sherlock leaned his hip against the counter next to John, evaluating his expression eagerly. “Describe it.”

John looked at him for a long moment, then thoughtfully dipped the spoon back into the honey, extracting about the same amount as he had the first time. Again he slid it into his mouth, let it melt on his tongue. 

He swallowed a bit of it as it melted, and he sighed with pleasure. He was still facing his best friend, watching Sherlock watch him, and so of course he was struck in that moment with the sort of reckless impulse that often transmitted itself from one of them to the other, like a germ. 

He set the spoon and jar aside. He reached up and slid his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck to guide him down into a gentle kiss.

Sherlock had gone where he was led with some resistance, which John supposed (hoped) was due to confusion over John’s intentions. 

They stayed still for a moment, lips just touching, and John released a warm breath through his nose that tickled over the delicate skin of Sherlock’s philtrum. His palm was dry but hot against the back of Sherlock’s neck. He could feel the lick of those sleek dark curls tickling against the back of his hand.

Sherlock turned his head very slightly, just enough that the tip of his nose brushed John’s. John, relieved at any movement from Sherlock that didn’t create an increase in the amount of space between them, stepped in so suddenly and awkwardly that it was almost more of a stumble. 

The kiss ended with the soft click of their lips parting, then merged seamlessly into a new one. One where they both moved back in simultaneously. John resisted the urge to gasp desperately for air to make up for the breath he’d been holding so nervously: Sherlock hadn’t pulled away! Oh lord, what did that mean? Did it mean anything?

He brushed the seam of Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his tongue, questioning, and almost immediately Sherlock darted the tip of his tongue out to meet John’s in response. The kiss deepened without pause, hot tongues slicking over each other, tasting and sharing melted honey, swirling so intimately John felt his toes curl. His fingertips slid into the warmth of Sherlock’s soft dark hair, ready to tug. 

The kitchen door rattled.

The two men jumped apart as if electrified, putting a good foot of space between them. John whirled to busy himself with screwing the lid back on the honey, his heart pounding, while Sherlock sipped from his drink and managed to look bored.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head in. “Where’d you two go?”

“Just here, Mrs. Hudson,” John said. “I wanted to try the honey Sherlock gave me.”

Mrs. Hudson’s brow furrowed. “Honey? That’s sort of an odd gift, isn’t it? Must be special stuff, knowing you.” She nodded at Sherlock.

“Yes, very unique,” John answered. He stowed the honey in the cabinet and grabbed his drink. “All done here.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled and (damn her) held the door for them. John went through, cursing internally. He didn’t dare to glance back at Sherlock; if he tried to read his expression now Mrs. Hudson would know something was up. Plus, he might not want to know what he’d find. 

At least, he supposed, they hadn’t been interrupted about .01 seconds later: he would doubtless have had a full-fledged erection to deal with at that point. He banished the thought from his mind, not wanting to tempt fate.

“There they are!” Greg cried far too enthusiastically. He was comfortably pissed, then. “ _And_ they come bearing more champagne. Excellent.” He snatched the bottle from Sherlock and generously topped up Molly’s glass. “We were just talking New Year’s Eve plans. What’re the pair of you up to, then?”

Sherlock had drifted over to his chair to close up his violin case, which was resting on the seat. He glanced up. 

John looked from Sherlock to Greg, feeling like a deer in headlights. “Um,’ he said. “Well, actually, Sherlock--”

“We’re going out,” Sherlock said, 

while John said,

“--has a date. What?” he looked at Sherlock, stunned.

Greg’s mouth was open. Molly, standing just behind him, appeared to be trying to swallow her drink (with great effort). The DI goggled at John, then at Sherlock, and back again. “Wait…” he wagged his finger between them. “You’re...dating?”

John verbally froze. He stood there, doing his best impersonation of a fish.

Sherlock turned pink. “No, um, that is...I _had_ other plans. They changed. I hadn’t informed John yet, but, I was thinking we...might spend the evening here? Or...out.” He stared at John, eyes as wide as they might be if he was watching an incoming train. “Whichever...he prefers.”

John remained silent, but only out of confusion. When had Sherlock’s plans changed? The whole reason he’d planned having their do tonight instead of New Year’s Eve was because he’d thought Sherlock wouldn’t be around to attend. 

He wasn’t put out. Just...flummoxed.

“Um,” he managed. “Yeah. Not sure what we’ll do then, I guess, but we’ll find something.” He shrugged easily and smiled at Sherlock, who had evidently realized he’d bungled delivering the news of his change of plans and was looking quite discomfited.

Lestrade’s expression gave away that he was still hung up on the word “date” in relation to Sherlock, but he managed to reign it in. “Well. It’s a big city, sure you can find plenty to do. Cheers,” he said, toasting nonsensically.

They all drank, the atmosphere suddenly, palpably awkward.

Sherlock was the one to break the silence. “Well. It’s been a lovely evening, but if you’ll all pardon me I have an early start in the morning. I’d best retire.”

John tilted his head, caught off guard yet again.

Their guests wished Sherlock a good night. As he passed John on his way to the kitchen, however, John stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Early start?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Yes. I’m sorry. I realize now that I neglected to mention that I’ll be traveling to see my parents tomorrow in order to spend the holiday with them. I’ll be back in time for the new year.” He paused. “It’s fine if you have something else to do,” he muttered in a rush. “If not, you can let me know if there’s somewhere in particular you’d like to go....” 

John wanted to ask about Matthew, about what had happened there, but he didn’t want to inadvertently put his foot in something. Instead, he nodded quickly to stem Sherlock’s nervous rambling. “All right. I’ll see you then. Have a good trip, yeah?”

They were standing quite close. For a moment John felt that they were mutually evaluating each other, trying to determine what was going on behind the other’s eyes. Then Sherlock’s gaze flicked briefly to John’s lips and back again. Something like hope sparked in John’s chest when he caught it.

Sherlock gave a slight nod. “Until then, John.” 

“Night,” John murmured, and reluctantly released his grip. 

Sherlock all but fled, picking up empty glasses on his way to the kitchen.

John inhaled deeply and held it, turning back to the room and his friends. It was going to be a very, very long week.


End file.
